

Matthew Milliman #234063

Winterfell @ Creekside
Wielding the power of Weirwood Sentinel (#45), Matthew demonstrated exceptional skill by playing +64 points above their rating in this epic clash.
Frost Throne
As winter's chill descends upon Creekside Park, the Warden's trials have tested the mettle of the North's champions. Skyler Kunz and his Stormborn Phoenix have risen to meet arcane challenges, while EJ Orschel and Derik strive to master the elements and prove their worth. Yet even as Timothy Scholle claims the Shadow Throne, a murderer walks among the noble houses, sowing discord amidst the gathering darkness. With ancient prophecies stirring and a wildling scout bringing dire tidings from beyond the Wall, the guardians of the North must stand united against the coming storm, for the true test of their resilience and duty lies ahead.



Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
Frost Throne
Icy fingers gripped the heart of Creekside, the wind's howl carrying whispers of forgotten prophecies. Matthew Milliman stood at the threshold of the course, the Weirwood Sentinel a leaden weight against his chest. The ancient bag tag seemed to pulse with warning, its runes glinting in the pale light.
"The old gods are restless," Tormund muttered, his breath fogging in the bitter air. "They sense the gathering darkness."
Matthew nodded grimly, his gaze sweeping over the frozen landscape. The once-familiar fairways lay cloaked in hoarfrost, transformed into a ghostly battleground. Today's round would test more than just skill - it would measure the very mettle of those who sought to lead in winter's darkest hour.
At the first tee, the assembled competitors eyed each other warily, hands tight on their discs. Timothy Scholle, draped in the Shadow Throne's dark majesty, radiated confidence bordering on arrogance. Skyler Kunz, the rising Stormborn Phoenix, bounced on his toes, eager to prove himself. Others, like EJ Orschel and Derik, wore expressions of grim determination, all too aware of the deeper stakes.
As they began to play, the course itself seemed to resist them. Discs skittered across patches of black ice, careening wildly off-target. Putts that once dropped smoothly clattered away, chains frozen into unforgiving iron. Yet for Matthew, the Weirwood Sentinel guided his throws with uncanny accuracy, as if lending him the sight of the old gods.
"The Sentinel has chosen its champion well," Tormund observed, watching Matthew with keen eyes.
But even as Matthew fought to keep pace with Timothy's relentless onslaught, whispers of danger swirled like the snow. Shadows deepened between the skeletal trees, and the snap of a twig underfoot carried the weight of a snapping bone.
Hole by hole, the battle raged, a clash of wills as much as throws. United purpose began to fray at the edges, suspicions sharpening like icicles. With each missed putt, each errant drive, cracks widened in their fragile alliance.
It was then, in a moment of bitter frustration, that Matthew caught a flicker of movement in the treeline - a glimpse of a shadowed figure, there and gone like a dark thought. The Weirwood Sentinel burned cold against his skin, ancient power stirring in warning.
"The darkness seeks to divide us," Matthew realized, his voice cutting through the icy air. "It knows it cannot prevail if we stand as one!"
Tormund's eyes widened, a glimmer of recognition sparking within. "Aye, the old tales speak of such tricks. If we succumb to mistrust, the North falls."
Seizing the moment, Matthew raised the Weirwood Sentinel high, its runes flaring with spectral light. "We are the guardians of the realms! On this course, in this hour, our fate hangs in the balance. Set aside suspicion and stand with me now, before the shadow claims us all!"
For a heartbeat, the wind itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, one by one, the house champions stepped forward, hands clasped in solemn oath. Even Timothy, eyes glittering with calculation, bowed his head in assent.
Together, they played the final holes, a united front against the whispering dark. And as the last putt dropped, the Weirwood Sentinel's light faded to a contented glow, its warning delivered.
They had weathered the first assault, but Matthew knew in his bones that it was only the beginning. The true storm was yet to come, and the North would need every ounce of skill, courage, and fellowship to survive it.
For in the heart of winter's fury, the Frost Throne awaited... and with it, the destiny of the realms.
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